E span is the land of the dogs were hanged. Spain is the country that does not appreciate the tenderness unthinkable in an animal that gets caught up in the air, drawing impossible stunts. Spain is the country of killer trees with branches, where an infamous string mowing a life as light as foam. Spain is a wasteland poetry buried within her dead.
poets Greyhounds are ambushed in the wind, folding the corners in silence, gliding like a stretch of water escaped from a ditch. Greyhounds are poets who are silhouetted against the moon, writing outlines unprecedented. Greyhounds question runs the words or jump over them, dodging the accents, so arrogant and inflexible. The tilde is a ridiculous lady gets nailed in the words like a thorn. The dogs disturb his routine, throwing to the wind, playing with her until she gets bored and leaves it on a roof, which blends with a twig. Sometimes, just in a nest. There he received lessons in humility and accept the painful irrelevance. The footprints of dogs leave no trace. They are swift, winged, almost ethereal. Not affected by gravity and hardness of the stone. Greyhounds accelerate the rotation of the earth, when madness takes hold of them. The eyes can barely keep its blistering gallop, but thanks to their careers listen to the music of the spheres.
Greyhounds mock spelling stretching or bending your ear. The ears of a greyhound can be transformed into an X, Y or LL. Struggling a bit can outline the N or the number Phi, the golden where God is hidden, playing with an infinite series that leaves an inch of his nose to the school teachers. School teachers do not understand God or greyhounds. God is a child who uses the ellipsis to cross rivers. Throws them one by one and hopped along. Those who are left over, they are stored in your pocket. The dogs are never separated from God, knowing that they need to not get lost on the road, where lurks the man with a pitchfork in his hand. We are told that God was an old man white beard and wrinkled skin, but God is a sick child calms his pain, caressing the bony head of a greyhound. Greyhounds watching the world while God rests. Each time you make a wrong, and God howled wakes up, but God can not do anything because no one pays attention to a child who fails to toe the peephole of a door.
Men who hanged the dogs lost their soul long ago. In fact, his soul fled horrified when he discovered that his hands the blood of others coveted. The men who hanged the dogs hide their eyes behind dark glasses because their eyes betray them. You only need look at to understand nothing behind. The men who hanged the dogs are the same shot to Garcia Lorca. It did not matter to uproot from our soil to a poet who slept between white camellias and cried like water. It did not matter buried in a grave with no name, with open eyes and a grimace of terror. The men who hanged the dogs barely speak. They do not like the words. They do not like to justify their actions and express their feelings. Leave a trail of pain and fear. They laugh at the poets who spend sleepless nights trying to find a verse to the end of a sonnet. They laugh at the fools who yearn for a future without bombs or black ruins. They laugh at the promises we made for children, ensuring that eternity death subsides, preventing us from falling into oblivion.
Each time a greyhound dies, a child is orphaned. Greyhounds provide the light in her eyes for sick children. Accompany them at night fever and countless nightmares. I wake up gently, talking to the ear of the day it arrives, with its freshness and its rising light, rosy. They speak of spring and the seed to bloom. We talk about the hot summer morning, when the sea offers a friendly and the sun appears a yellow stone that just will not fall. They say that winter is hiding behind a bush and fallen asleep. Children enfermos son los niños que el Joven Rabí escogió para mostrar al mundo la belleza en su forma más pura. El joven Rabí se enfrentó al poder de las tinieblas con un niño tullido y un galgo famélico, sin ignorar que la compasión es una flor extraña. Una flor que sólo crece en laderas escarpadas y en profundas soledades, donde las plegarias tiritan de miedo al pensar que enmudecerán en un sótano vacío.
Algunas mañanas, me levanto temprano y los galgos ya están en la explanada que llaman plaza, con su triste iglesia de fachada encalada, escondiendo la piedra, y un árbol con el tronco lleno de nudos, con aspecto of bumps. Grouped by long chains, all are young and do not know what to expect. They know that day some will stay in the country, overwhelmed by human cruelty. Could warn them, but the men who prepared his death, walk around with shotguns and long ropes. His eyes seem coals by ancient hatred. The eyes of dogs as colorful butterflies flutter. Blue, brown, purple, perhaps a faint golden glow of old trumpet. Some are sitting, others lying down, dozing. Some are standing and others crumbled. Some are so thin they almost levitate. Some look of clay, others of silver, others are white as the morning. The dawn that already goes through the square and put them moving.
chains are heard, the shouts, laughter. Away all at once, to a destination unequally yoked. I feel what he felt Don Quixote as he contemplated the galley slaves, condemned to push a huge battleship with an oar, "Why make slaves of those whom God and nature have made free?" I sat on a stone bench and watched them away. A white greyhound of spiritual walk and resigned, turned his head and looked at me with humanity, with tired eyes and faintly hopeful. We both knew our lives were a spark, a moment of clarity in an infinite darkness, but we struggled to think that we are reunited under another sky, wandering through an endless plain, far from that morning murderer would be charged the lives of the clumsy and laggards. We reunited in a week without gloom or forgetfulness, fullness and splendor, a perfect morning, free of fear and bustling. We would watch again, like old acquaintances who have discovered the joy of being on the other. Her eyes in my eyes, your dreams in my dreams and our heartbeats concluded in the wind. Rafael Narbona
http://www.diariodealcala.es/articulo_c/general/2043/los-galgos-ahorcados
To me, this has made me mourn. And I said that I cry for little things. Thanks
Piedad.
0 comments:
Post a Comment